


Day 12: Machine

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [12]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Body Modification, Dehumanization, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Gender-neutral Reader, Gore, Needles, Other, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Continued from day four. Chaos Breaker continues working on his new favorite toy.
Relationships: Chaos Breaker Dragon/Reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	Day 12: Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaahahahahahahahaha I'd like to dedicate this one to yesterday's announcement of Star-vader, Chaos Breaker Dragon (V Series).
> 
> Same warnings as the others: Consensual But Not Safe, Or Sane, Or Risk Aware, Etc, generally very unpleasant, you know, It's Chaos Breaker. Read the tags.

Before long, you’re not sure how much of you is _you_ anymore.

Or, to be more specific — you’re not sure how much of you is still _human_. You _are_ still _you_ , as your captor lovingly reminds you at every opportunity; in fact, you’re more yourself than ever, because isn’t this what you always yearned for? To become so utterly, completely _his_ that your body itself is molded to his whims? Isn’t this the truest to yourself that you’ve ever been?

 _You are_ , Chaos Breaker’s voice whispers, dripping like poison through the neural implants in the back of your skull, _and have always been, only_ pretending _to be anything more than a toy_.

You cling tight to the embers of hope in your ticking mechanical heart, to the belief that he’s _right_ , that this is who — _what_ — you were born to be. So much of you is mechanical now, and Chaos Breaker is the only one who truly knows where your flesh ends and the steel and circuits begin. He prefers to open you up while you’re awake, let you experience every incision and insertion firsthand, but you quietly suspect he enjoys putting you to sleep too, that he relishes the uncertainty it fosters in you when you realize you don’t know what he might have taken from you while you were unconscious.

There’s no way to know, and no way to ask. Only rarely are you permitted to speak these days, and even then, only when he’s in the mood for you to cry or beg; you don’t understand the finer intricacies of its function, but it’s obvious the small metal lump in your throat is the means by which he controls your voice, and also the reason for the slight robotic quality it has when you _are_ allowed to use it. Most of the time, any noise you try to make is reduced to a sad electrical whine, like the hum of a badly-wired fluorescent light.

A thick metal collar, adorned by rings of red light, is fastened around your neck, ensuring you can’t attempt to claw the device out. You wouldn’t try — and _can’t_ , not while he’s still keeping you securely confined to the operating table that’s been your home for several weeks now — but you wonder if someone else _has_ tried, and what happened to them.

“I prefer my humans like this,” the dragon says, his claw tapping your collar with a quiet metallic ringing sound. “Quiet, except for when I want to hear you scream. It’s cuter to let your eyes do the rest of the talking for you~” The tip of the claw traces the soft flesh under your eyeball, its brothers curling around the back of your skull. It doesn’t escape your notice that his hand is bigger than your entire head. “Your eyes,” he continues, silky and dangerous, “are _very_ talkative. For instance, right now they’re begging me to continue taking you apart, aren’t they?”

Perhaps the most frightening part is the fact that he isn’t wrong. He can _see_ the vestiges of hope in your huge, petrified pupils, and there’s nowhere for you to hide.

 _Yes_ , you try to say. The only sound that comes out is a high-pitched, crackling static.

“Excellent!” he replies, straightening up and rubbing his claws together. “Let’s get right to it, then, shall we?”

He taps a command into one of his machines, and the restraints around your left arm retract.

Suddenly, you’re not sure what to do, and an entirely different kind of fear settles coldly in the remains of your once-human chest. It’s the first freedom you’ve felt in weeks, and you don’t want it. It feels like being cast out, abandoned, thrown abruptly into the open ocean with no direction — but before you can truly start to panic, or even really wonder what he’s doing, he brings an implement up to your shoulder, some kind of long, thin metal blade, and drives it straight into your joint.

It slips between the bones with perfect precision, and you _scream_ , a horrific sound more like the harsh shriek of metal on metal than a human in agony. It’s more _shock_ than anything else; your arm almost instantly goes numb, warm and fuzzy as if it was swaddled in a thick blanket. Any other significant pain is swamped by the fluid trickling through one of your ever-present IV drips, though it only goes so far — by design, you’re sure, it’s not true anesthesia so much as just an assurance that you won’t thrash too much and make the procedure difficult — and a familiar burning flare blossoms from your shoulder, quickly spreading across your torso. You welcome it, cling to it, letting the pain blaze over your skin uncontrolled and drive away the paralysis that comes with the idea of unwanted freedom.

Not that you can move your arm now, anyway, regardless of restraints; Chaos Breaker levers the blade in your shoulder, separating flesh and ligaments from bone as if he was picking apart a perfectly-cooked rack of lamb. The burn stretches all the way to your collarbone, and then it snaps, slams you with the full force of the pain as he opens up your shoulder joint, and you lose yourself in the formless, robotic sounds that rip free from your throat.

You must have so little blood left in you by now, but that doesn’t stop it from instantly pooling on the table, soaking your skin in its red heat.

More tools find their way to your shoulder; a clamp to hold the joint apart, more knives and pliers, something that you think is a soldering iron, other implements you can’t even begin to name, and you scream the entire time. He plays you like some grotesque instrument, untuned and discordant, and your eyes squeeze desperately shut, your brow crumpling with the sheer effort of _suffering_. You burn and burn, your body warping and twisting and opening before him, the hollows between your mechanical organs flooding with blood and oil and something that you can't name, something bitter and empty and gnawing and _delicious_.

“Beautiful~” you think you hear him say, and the surviving spark of hope within you swells with horrified pride.

He shows you the perfectly smooth chrome sphere before he inserts it into you; a mockingly gentle claw pries your eyelids open to make sure you see it, but you can’t even _think_ to process what it is, what it’s for. The only thing that makes sense in your world is the pain, the stretching and tearing that starts at your shoulder and webs out across your chest like a network of live wires that all react when just one of them is tugged.

It’s cold as it goes in, a precisely carved orb of ice that melts instantly into the heat of blood and pain and solder. A spark shoots through your chest and makes your heart stutter — _tickticktickktickkkk_ — and then the soldering iron goes to work, and although the drugs mute the blinding, searing agony into an almost-bearable burn, they can't stop the nauseating smell of cooking meat from brushing your nostrils. The only thing that saves you from puking your guts out is the fact that they're no longer made of flesh, and haven't processed solid food since you arrived here.

Eventually, after far, _far_ too long, he puts the iron down and administers a quick injection, and then, like the lights gradually turning on in a huge warehouse, your arm comes back to you, the blanket pulling away to expose raw nerves and clammy skin to your already-besieged senses once again.

“There you go,” he says, hissing through teeth pulled into his usual dangerous grin, “almost done~”

The length of time until he’s actually finished his work is just another thing you don’t know, and don’t need to know. He takes it at a leisurely pace, as always, whistling and humming as he skillfully manipulates tiny wires and components in his impossibly massive claws, eventually stopping only to swap out the tank attached to your IV before he starts stitching you back together again. At this point in your new life — your _true_ life; everything before this was just _preparation_ — his needle is comfortingly familiar, the pinpricks as it knits your flesh back together a loving kiss compared to the brutality with which he opens you up.

You want to sob when he finally sets his tools down, but your voice is gone again, and the only solace you have is the damp trickle of tears on your cheeks. A hand reaches up and gently wipes them away, and you realize, with a slow, numbing horror as the wetness touches your fingers, that it’s your own, even though—

_—You didn’t do that._

“Another resounding success, I think!” Chaos Breaker says, bringing his claws together in self-congratulation. “Why don’t you give it a try? Move your arm for me~”

Any fear of freedom long forgotten, replaced in an instant by the insidious, creeping realization of what he’s done, you try to raise your arm above you. Then, you try to straighten your elbow. Finally, desperately, you try to wiggle your fingers.

Nothing happens, again and again.

Then, the dragon makes a gesture in the air, and your arm reaches out to him, unbidden, fingers brushing limply against his warm, blood-soaked claws like a puppet moving clumsily on a string.

_You didn’t do that. He did._

“Do you like it?” he asks, though you get the feeling he’s talking more to himself than to you. “We’ll have to do the finger joints at a later date, I think, once I iron out a few kinks in the process. These are _such_ promising results, though. I _knew_ it was worth investing so much in you.”

A quiet buzz in your neural implants, and your hand returns to your face, wiping away fresh tears even as they continue to fall.

“For now, though, how about we get started on the rest of those limbs?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I'm so horrifically slow here I'm Dying Irl I probably won't finish all this til halfway through November but THAT's FINE
> 
> Is this missing tags? Let me know if it's missing tags (this applies to all my work actually). Is there a tag for "getting turned very slowly into an android" or


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